Short Mouldy Poems

The decay of corpses is my domain
Abandoned in the dread mountain region
Unrestrainable through fetter and chain
My bread mouldy but my spirit Legion...

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My love has got no eyelids
It sees but only you
No ears but so endearing...
A walk within a shoe.

It shines just like a baldy
And smells of morning dew.
It never shall dim mouldy
I blinking do heart you.

As always growing fonder
Your stubble now a tash.
Without your fondue icing
A gravel in a rash....

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A forgotten swing In a playground
Rusts until it breaks
A forgotten summer flower
A new blossom can not make.

A forgotten piece of bread
Turns mouldy through, and through
A forgotten green leaf fruit tree
Will never bare it's fruit.

If we forget each other
Every single day,
A forgotten human being
Will one day fade away.


Lynn Barany...

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The poor lady was waiting
On a stripped mouldy street
Her feeble lungs were panting
For drops of moisture
She trembled with broken sob
She was not a bird
Her broken heart took wings
Just to give a newborn kiss and hug 
She was waiting
Shivering in hunger
Deserted as a graveyard
In bloodcurdling desolation
She fell in with an incessant emotion
Love is a bland name....

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This Poem Is Trash

Stinky winky yellow spots on rusty tinnies
Mouldy food on smelly plastic
Damp paper and rubber lactic
That the mice think fantastic
Gooey substance iridescent
Cartons glowing so florescent
Furry knobs being unpleasant
Fingers grubby very sticky
Shifting ugly and so tricky
Feeling sick and rather yucky
Uttering words from the bible
Invoking help from St Michael
To sort another weeks recycle...

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See those blue mouldy lines
snake across its creamy
surface. When it’s cut it
smells like dad’s sweaty socks!
Served after dessert with
some crackers, grapes, and Port.
Save some for me to eat!

Stilton is a blue cheese traditionally served after Christmas dinner

My Merry Christmas Party Pleiades Contest Sponsored by Andrea Dietrich
6 syllables per line checked with how many syllables

12~11~16...

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Autumn blooming with colour,
From Nature’s palette of 
Copper and gold.
Large leaves lying still,
Damp and mouldy, in this late sun.

Pears slowly ripening, 
In harvest’s jamboree.
Pinkish tinged, speckled,
They lie heavy with camouflage,
Ripe for the pot.

Skinned, their crystalline beauty
Cannot be held too long.
Their life is done, long before
Winter’s pallor and seasoned, frosty crust,
Binds the rivers with ice.

22.10.18...

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still the same
still holding séances in batholes
still thrumming
and still drumming on my tinderbox

still letting the copycat days
kill themselves over and over
the angels are on strike
all over the Mandrake Mountain

still the dawn
is covered with cobwebs
of cold marine graveyards
still the dusk
is X-Rayed through our bones

still I exist
even though it feels I don’t
painted on the mouldy wall
just a part of a still life scenery...

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What suggestive simile has mould,
Its choice of residence could not be sweeter planned;
Such a perfect timed embrace,
Embedded in the papers flattering embroidery -
So fitting of analogy.
Growing down the wall each day,
A sickly, ill debauchery; 
but yet, it still amazes me.
How it painted such a life-like portrait,
How deliberate it seems to be.
So what of it’s reflective study
Should I now consider?
What of your depiction
Mould -
What are you trying to tell me?...

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Once I threw a mouldy bread
into the dumpster
and when I went for groceries 
I saw a Gypsy boy taking the bread
and being content about it.

A tear dropped down my cheek.

I was always surrounded by
immoral people;
drug addicts, alcoholics,
small thieves, the poor.

Perhaps they see me as one of them
or they like the fact I don’t see them 
as immoral. Or they see me as a saviour.

Yes, that is who I am.
Mother Theresa for drug addicts.
Mouldy bread for hungry Gypsy boy....

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